


Water Is Sweet, Blood Is Thicker

by Meduseld



Category: Aquaman (2018), Aquaman (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alien Biology, Arranged Marriage, Atlantis should be superhero flavored Game Of Thrones so this is that, Cultural Differences, Dubious Consent, Duty, Incest, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 06:58:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16593053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meduseld/pseuds/Meduseld
Summary: Scenes from a marriage.





	1. Chapter 1

In the mirror, Orm’s expression is as frozen as his hands, hovering delicately on the clasp on his necklace, holding it above his skin.

Arthur feels something unknot in his chest, despite the flash of mingled fear and anger in Orm’s eyes.

They’re beautiful eyes. Their mother’s.

That’s when he realizes that he’s drunker than he meant to be, that he didn’t knock, still unused to how _strong_ Atlantean alcohol is. The damned dinner with nobles from across the seas had just been so long and boring, drinking had been his only refuge even with Orm running interference and countering barbs Arthur had noticed too late.

He had still been thinking of it, Orm’s incredible grace under pressure when he’d been halfway to his rooms. It was the reason he’d turned back.

He was starting to spend more time in Orm’s quarters anyway, low ceilinged and Spartan but far more lived in that his own. The guards didn’t even blink when he’d moved past them.

“Sorry” he says to Orm, somehow already across the room, despite how low the lights are.

It’s less than a moment before he’s pressing his brother against his dressing table, nuzzling Orm’s neck and enjoying the way his muscles relax under the attention.

It’s a good thing, because the surface of the table is covered in weighted brushes and other things, built heavy enough to keep them from floating away. Orm could really do some damage with them, if he wanted.

He doesn’t though, content to let Arthur rub against him like an affectionate cat. He smells so good.

The shampoo he uses –it’s not really shampoo, it’s the paste thing they use down here instead, with a name Arthur can’t get to stick in his head. It’s basically shampoo anyway so that’s what he calls it– is turning into Arthur’s favorite scent. Coral of some kind, he thinks.

He could ask but he doesn’t.

“You have nothing to apologize for” Orm says in a voice that implies he most definitely does. “You’re my king, my husband and my older brother. These rooms are more yours than mine” he continues and there is real anger there.

He doesn’t let anyone else in his private quarters, Arthur knows, except for a select few chambermaids that have been on staff since he was a baby.

“I still should have knocked” he says, arms around Orm’s waist now, plucking unhappily at the ugly orange fabric of his dress. It’s not a color that suits him. It even clashes with the necklace, a delicate blue that brings out his eyes.

“Perhaps the only accurate choice made by the giver” Orm says, slyly mocking, and realizes he said it out loud. Arthur gave him the necklace.

Or, actually, it was pointed out to him that an engagement gift was proper no matter how little choice either of them had had in decision. Arthur had picked it out from a lineup Vulko brought him.

So really, he’s making fun of them both.

Orm’s insults are layered, much like Orm himself. Arthur loves that about him. He’s a challenge, just as mystifying up close, or more, than at a distance. Arthur might just spend his whole life chasing him.

The fact that Orm has no problem insulting him, belittling him or calling him by his first name in private, and playing the perfect consort in public is part of it too.

He’s been warned, even by Orm himself, not to trust him and he hasn’t, not really.

It’s loving him, so easy and so instant that it’s like breathing, that’s the problem.

Orm makes an annoyed little sound, reaching behind, tantalizingly brushing Arthur’s bare arms, to unzip his dress. It’s a zipper like thing, anyway.

Arthur hums happily, mouthing along the cool line of the necklace as he slips his hands inside to stroke his husband’s skin.

In the mirror, Orm’s façade of irritated indifference is cracking, eyes growing heavy lidded.

“This is one _ugly_ dress, Orm” he whispers, going for sexy. “I like you in the one we met in better” he says, thinking he’s managed it.

The sound Orm makes now promises a knife in his gut. “ _Oh, yes,_ I suppose it should go for Marius purple. Make it clear that I don’t think of myself as part of the House of Atlan, of my husband’s line”.

Arthur flounders, trying to keep up, arms too loose to keep his husband from spinning out of his reach.

Orm had almost always worn purple before their marriage, before he and Arthur had even met, if the portraits are anything to go by.

Orm’s face goes from thunderous to almost amused at his gape. He actually laughs: “Isn’t that just like you? You do your best plotting when you’re not plotting at all”.

It’s the smile, sly but fond, that drives Arthur over the edge.

“Plotting isn’t what I had in mind for tonight” he growls, pulling him in by the waist. Orm lets himself be hauled,

“More like something else ending in - _ing_?” he whispers and Arthur slips his tongue between his lips. Orm bites at it.

Then they’re kissing like they’re trying to leave blood on the floor.

The way they always do. Sometimes Arthur feels a pang of guilt about it, because he’s the only one Orm’s ever kissed.

He had been a virgin on their wedding night.

Before Arthur had come along, and almost every Atlantean politician and aristocrat had forgotten every grievance they’d had with Orm, it had been a point of deep suspicion.

He had probably been the first King in centuries to not take a lover.

At the time there had been whispers, that there was something _wrong_ with Orm. With his manhood or his desires.

That, along with every other complaint, had disappeared when Arthur had come to claim the throne. They’d martyred him in life, even before it became clear that, after centuries, Atlantis’ oldest tradition would return.

Mera had told him it would give his reign legitimacy.

Vulko had said that it would make sure Orm could not depose him or claim he’d been cast aside.

And Orm, after Arthur had gotten over his slack-jawed horror and the ministers’ glee at the fact that Orm’s apparently endless bachelordom was finally over, with a marriage that could not be contested, had said nothing.

Not even when Arthur had cornered him in the tiny room at the top of the third tower. The one with the view of the gardens.

One of Orm’s favorite spots, he’d come to find.

It wasn’t like he was eloquent.

“So we’re the Targaryens, huh?” he’d said, to Orm’s blank and somehow furious stare. “Because I mean. Married. We’re gonna be married”.

After a long silence, Orm had said “yes”.

And in the quiet word Arthur had heard _I don’t want to, I don’t want_ you _, I will do my duty to Atlantis_ and, most surprisingly, _this isn’t the worst amongst the things I thought could happen._

Then he’d been gone, taking his leave with a deep and mocking bow.

They hadn’t spoken again until their wedding day.

The ceremony, beautiful and moonlit, pale and full in the sky where her light filtered down through the water, was a blur to Arthur. It had been like a dream, threaded through with the songs of their people, haunting and familiar.

After both an eternity and an eye blink, he’d found himself alone with Orm, under the silvery vaulted ceiling of the King’s quarters their mother had occupied years before.

They had been empty since then.

Orm had insisted on the squat quarters in the back once held by the Crown’s most treasured generals, the most defensible rooms in the palace, when his parents died.

Vulko hadn’t liked it but Atlanna’s quarters were Arthur’s by right and he hadn’t wanted to make Orm move anyway.

He had liked it there, those dark cozy rooms, in Orm’s presence. He still did.

Orm hadn’t been back to Atl-Arthur’s quarters since that first night, where he’d stayed as careful blank as always, even though there had been a tremor in his fingers when he pulled off his wedding gown.

It was made of cloth so fine most Atlanteans couldn’t ever dream of affording it.

While Arthur had been trying to figure out what to say to his brother, his _husband_ , Orm had carefully splayed himself on the bed.

“Well?” he’d said, poised even then and Arthur had gaped.

He was as beautiful as he was alien. Skin smooth and hairless, pale from never getting sun that wasn't filtered down through miles of seawater, his muscles slightly different, feet broader and flatter. And between his legs, a smooth mound cut vertically by a dark crease.

Arthur had known what he would look like.

The palace doctors had hovered over him uncertainly for weeks, assessing compatibility and fertility and a thousand other concerns.

He’d been handed textbooks and anatomical drawings as his blood and other fluids were drained and tested.

They had assured him that it would work.

His physiology was close enough and Orm was young, strong.

His body would adapt, evolutionary differences kicking in to widen his hips, soften his chest, let his body swell with Arthur’s heir when the time came.

The key, they’d insisted with messianic devotion, was repeated exposure.

That was the word they had used, over and over.

And looking down on Orm’s naked and inviting body, the only thought Arthur could muster above the choking mix of lust and tenderness overwhelming him was _He’s never been_ exposed _to anybody in his life._

It must have been terrifying, spending your whole life believing this night would go one way, and then suddenly finding it would be something else entirely.

Orm had come to his marriage bed untouched and Arthur didn’t know whether to fall on him ravening or swaddle him in blankets. Orm, of course, refused to allow either.

“Are you perhaps...indisposed? Or am I not to your liking?” he’d sneered and Arthur had finally kissed him, helpless. The clumsy response, the fact that he’d startled at the first brush of Arthur’s tongue had cut at his heart.

He’d never even been kissed before, until Arthur’s inelegant touch.

It was almost a relief, the way Orm pushed back, fearless and determined, refusing to be bowed.

Arthur had been terrified of him just laying pliant, in quiet duty, turning his face away as if he wanted to be anywhere else.

Instead Orm had met him with the same banked fire he brought to everything.

He’d spread his legs for Arthur, gratifyingly slick under his fingers, arching with every stroke of the rough callous.

It wasn’t what happened with Atlantean skin, Arthur learned, from the strange shark-skin like streaks flesh on his brother’s hands.

He might have never been touched before but he let Arthur do it with abandon.

Until he’d slipped his fingers deep inside, moving from gentle exploration, ready to please him first.

That was when Orm had pulled him down.

There had been a frenzy there that had hit Arthur like a thunderbolt. Orm was expecting it to hurt. It was in his eyes, hard as diamond.

He wanted it to hurt, even, to prove to himself that Arthur would do it.

He hadn’t.

Instead, he’d slowed, carefully moving his fingers aside.

Then, with an internal apology for the wince, at the unfinished preparation, because his brother would never take a verbal one, he slowly dipped inside Orm like a kiss, like an apology, like the man he wanted to be.

Orm had refused to make a sound, lips pressed together as they moved.

His hand had clenched on Arthur’s shoulder, leaving a bruise he’d kept touching absently for days.

It hadn’t perfect, not by a long shot.

But he’d made sure they both finished, together for one perfect moment before Orm slipped away to his own rooms.

Arthur would see it in his dreams sometimes, the way he looked when he came.

Orm isn’t keeping his lips shut now. He’s moving them down Arthur’s face while pulling at his clothes.

“Well?” he says, and Arthur can see the fear still lurking deep in his eyes.

That first night, Orm had rushed him through it, half scared and half proud.

He’d barely let Arthur stretch him open with his fingers, both ignorant that it was necessary and eager to get it over with.

It’s been that way ever since, though the eagerness has shifted with the pleasure Arthur brings him, determined, every time.

He’d like to take his time, for once.

And there’s something they haven’t done before, something he _wants_.

Arthur sinks down, lifting the fabric. Orm’s hands are almost frantic against his hair, his shoulders, trying to pull him back up, uncomprehending.

Arthur presses his face against his thigh instead, sliding along until Orm goes still, waiting.

His hands curl on Orm’s hips, already starting to widen, for the space of a breath before he puts his mouth between his legs.

“ _Oh!_ ” Orm cries out, surprised and Arthur’s thumbs dig down to keep his thighs apart.

It spurs him on, the way Orm gets so wet, fingers grasping in Arthur’s hair, pressing him down instead of away.

He’s never made any sounds like these, raw and loud, like they’re being torn from his chest. Part of him had wanted to this just to get close with the most intimate part of him, to get a clear picture of it in his head, instead of a textbook sketch.

But that’s barely in his mind now, eyes closed in pleasure, tongue moving faster and harder, enjoying the strange but welcome taste of him, the smoothness of the skin he’s buried his face in.

Orm isn’t like a human, male or female, in any way and Arthur can’t get enough.

He feels so different and so perfect under his tongue.

Orm’s bent nearly in half, practically sobbing, trembling with want and need. With every stroke of Arthur’s tongue he grasps for more and more of what he’s getting.

The sounds are intoxicating, and Arthur’s cock could drive nails but it doesn’t matter, not now.

What he wants is for Orm to finish coming apart like this, unmade by Arthur’s teeth and lips.

He’s the first, the one, the last.

Orm’s only lover, now and always. It ignites a fierce pride, now.

His tongue thrusts deep, sending ripples through Orm, vibrating through his thighs and Arthur’s hands.

He screams when he comes, going boneless.

Orm’s so far gone he seems to forget Arthur’s even there as he moves back up, kissing his pelvis, petting his skin.

“Wha- _what?_ ” he whispers as Arthur nuzzles his neck.

He’s still hard against Orm’s hip, but it feels like an afterthought.

Orm’s hand finds his hair again, throat swallowing, eyes trying to focus. They widen a little when he finally feels Arthur’s cock but he shakes his head.

It’ll be better this way, touching himself in his rooms later to Orm so totally undone, so sated he’s practically glowing. It’s a beautiful image.

Orm’s still stroking his hair but his expression is clouded.

“You want me gone” Arthur says, feeling magnanimous.

After a pause, Orm says “I do” but there’s a little furrow between his brows, like he can’t quite remember _why_.

They still haven’t slept, just slept, together.

But it’s been a night of enough firsts, and Arthur doesn’t want to press his advantage.

They have time, after all.

“You're seriously gonna make me walk of shame it?” he says anyway, because teasing is what big brothers are for, he’s heard.

Orm laughs, more genuine than he’s ever heard it.

“Oh yes, how scandalous. My husband seen leaving my rooms in the middle of the night. What will I say at breakfast tomorrow” he says. The furrow is gone.

“I thought I said no more plotting” Arthur answers, pulling himself upright.

Orm smiles, more courtly now, “It’s my default, I’m afraid”.

 Arthur smiles back.

His quarters feel warmer than they ever have when he finally gets to bed that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	2. Chapter 2

There wasn’t any sound but the whisper of the water in the far north corridor.

Even Orm, moving with a purpose, didn’t seem to be there from how silently he moved. It was a long held habit, drummed into him from childhood.

Below, floors and rooms away, he could hear his brother stomping around, feet human and heavy on the stone. He still hadn’t learned the habit, much less the elegant arrogance with which he should do it, of gliding as often as he could.

Atlanteans didn’t walk often, not unless they were commoners packed into the winding grottoes of the marketplace, or nobles walking as close as they were allowed to the throne, or any of them before an altar, showing their subordination to the crown or their piety within their temples.

It was a comfort, in a way.

Orm could always hear him coming.

And the people loved him for it, for seeming to be close to them, for all that it meant that the nobles despised him for it.

There was a balance between them, each drawing in the people the other pushed away. If it held, it just might make their marriage work.

The fact that Arthur was ready and determined to be a good husband would help.

Orm was sure he himself wasn’t one, and couldn’t be.

He hadn’t had anyone to show him how, despite receiving in-depth lessons on every subject worth knowing about from the best tutors since he’d been old enough to talk.

It was in that that he could be useful to Arthur, the minutiae of tax laws and grazing rights, the old hatreds and allegiances between the great noble houses sworn to their crown and why the price of seaweed in Aurania mattered to the guardsmen of Lemuria.

And in return, Arthur would cup his elbow, and speak to him lowly, and _listen._

Then, he’d sometimes take him to bed with so much care Orm felt like screaming.

He hated it.

Not the act, which had terrified him up until the moment they had done it, and then it had been so pleasurable that is seemed ridiculous to have ever feared it.

And he _had_ enjoyed it, Arthur had made sure of it.

What he hated was the kindness.

Arthur wanted it to be a love match, or at least a true partnership. That required trust.

And Orm had none to give.

Whatever he’d had once had been lost, abraded and atrophied and set on the tides.

It was foolish for anyone to trust him, no one kept Atlantis’ crown for so long on their head without being what Orm was.

He learned that first hand as a boy, and the lesson had been retaught and retaught and retaught. And somehow still, Arthur smiled at him.

He did not push Orm, did not demand, did not play politics. When Orm had insisted he keep command over the gardens, Arthur had smiled and agreed.

One of Orm’s few true refuges, so close to his heart he’d overplayed his hand and made their importance to him obvious and Arthur had just handed them over. No veiled threats of how they could be taken away, or how they would have to make room for his favorite flora, or rearrange the beds to shape his seal.

It was likely only to be a matter of time before all of that happened, especially if Vulko and Mera remained as Arthur’s other most trusted advisors, and yet.

Orm had discovered that for all his ability to love had withered, his ability to hope remained as stubborn and stupid as ever.

After Arthur had smiled down at the blooms, hardy and red variants of Triton’s Shield, instead of the soft and insipid flowers of Leto’s Veil or other nonsense that most seemed to favor, Orm had found himself with words on the tip of his tongue.

He wanted to tell him, suddenly, that Triton’s Shield and its heavy scent reminded him of the Summer Palace, where his parents had packed him off as often as possible as a boy, even when winter currents swept a chill into every room.

He’d been as close to freedom as he would ever be, then.

His lessons had given him no quarter, but his father hadn’t been there to sneer at him when he was bested in combat training and his mother hadn’t been haunting the halls, comparing him endlessly to her lost first born, so impossibly perfect that Orm would always fall short.

The water was always warm enough to threaten to overwhelm the Palace in plant growth, even when Orm and the others shivered miserably. It always smelled of wilderness and volcanic sand, and the roar of magma underneath would rock Orm to sleep.

He had not returned since before he’d been crowned.

Maybe the mighty arrogance Summer Palace of the House of Atlan, meant as a testament to their mastery of the seas had finally been swallowed up, and the caretakers kept collecting their fee anyway.

He had liked it that way, preserved perfectly in memory.

Now there was a part of him that wanted to take Arthur there.

Or to tell him that the dark red, almost purple, of the blooms reminded him of his first horse, Lysander, the one that was truly his.

Orm had loved riding, spending days defying the rough waters that swirled around the grounds.

He’d been a passionate horseman in every sense, slowly starting to build up the Royal Stables, in one of the few things he’d done that his father approved of.

That had stopped too, after he was crowned, though far later.

By the time the rumors were beginning to echo, the ones that wondered why Orm did not take a lover or much interest in a betrothed.

As if there was anyone he could have. Anyone he could trust with his skin.

There had never been any truth to the whispers about his horses, and everyone had known it, but Orm could not afford them anyway.

And now, staring down at his gardens from the small tower room, the one he’d always favored, he found he wasn’t plotting, or calculating or reviewing the ever shifting chart of allies and enemies he kept in his head.

He was thinking of Arthur, and his childhood horses. It wasn’t fitting for a king to not be able to ride. He would certainly look the part, gallant and handsome, on a strong steed.

The house of Attia had a perfect one, a gelding that would grow beautiful in a silver color edged with turquoise. Surely, with a little pressure, they could be persuaded to gift it to Arthur.

Shame it couldn’t be bred.

And worse, Orm was dreaming of it, racing the tides with Arthur by his side.

That was the sort of thing that could get him killed.

Behind him, there was a coming noise that pulled him from his thoughts.

There was only one person that clomped so shamelessly through the place halls. Only one that would both know Orm favored this tower and would dare to go to him anyway.

His husband, his brother, the only man that called him by his name. To his face, anyway.

“Uh, hi” Arthur said, bending awkwardly in the narrow doorway, hesitating as if he might not be allowed in. As if any room in the castle was anything but his.

Orm gave a quick bow, as shallow as his status allowed him to make it. Arthur shifted, uncomfortably.

It was part of the reason Orm was so insistent on it. One of them would break their habit, eventually. Probably. Perhaps not. Stubbornness was one of the more pronounced traits of the House of Atlan.

“Anything interesting?”

Orm paused. He wasn’t expecting a real answer but Orm could give one, if he wanted.

“Just looking over the gardens” he said, instead. Arthur moved to the window and Orm let him.

He put his hand on Orm’s hip, stroking slowly. Almost unsure. As if Orm would push him away. Arthur kisses his neck, swiftly like he’s stealing and Orm turns, ready for this. Laying with his husband is truly pleasurable, after all.

“I was with Tula, earlier” Arthur says and Orm freezes.

 There’s something hidden there, something that Arthur is trying to say. He’s one of the few that Orm can’t read as clearly as he’d like.

“She’s very...protective, of you” he says at last.

“She’s my sister” Orm answers, still confused, stalling for time.

“And I’m your brother” Arthur says, suddenly angry.

“You don’t honestly think...you do” he says, angry himself. No matter how long he’s had the crown, how long he’s lived among them and accepted their ways he is still so unfathomably _human_.

“When will you _listen_ ” he hisses, cutting off whatever nonsense Arthur is about to spew. He’s tired of giving this speech.

“We are married because we are the heirs of the House of Atlan and the Throne of Atlantis. Us, and us alone. We are _not_ like any others, anywhere. Tula is my sister. You are my husband and my king. Do you understand?”

Arthur’s brow is furrowed and set and he doesn’t, not really. There’s a part of Orm that hates him for it. Because it _hurts_.

“Why is it that you think you’re still on the surface? Why is it that you won’t accept what you are? What _we_ are?” Arthur’s mouth opens and Orm doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want to be reminded that everything he was raised for, everything he had paid in blood for, the only life he’d ever known, was given to someone that didn’t want anything to do with it. With him.

Part of his husband still feels guilty about bedding his brother, his only equal. There’s a fix for that, at least. Bedmates are rarely partners, after all. “I cannot take a lover, even if I desired one. Because _you’re_ the King. You could take one thousand. You could have them on the Throne with the whole court watching on and no one would say a word. _Do you understand_?”  

Arthur kisses him, hard and desperate and Orm kisses back.

There was a kindness to him, a decency, that Orm had never seen before, in anyone. It would be sad when it left him.

“I don’t want another lover, Orm, I _don’t want another_ ” he whispered desperately, pulling him close and biting at his neck, and Orm curses the softness of his heart.

Their hearts.

Arthur did mean it, in the moment. But time was long and biting.

His parents had married with the best intentions too. Now they have graves and Orm has his father’s daughter for a sister and his mother’s son for a husband.

Arthur has never raised his voice, let alone his hand, at him. It must have been like that once for them too, even if Orm cannot remember it.

But that means he cannot lose sight of what this is: the calm before the storm.

And he doesn’t think it’s far off, either.

Mera remains so close to Arthur’s side that he’s almost sure she’ll be the first. Arthur is so very handsome, after all.

So he puts both his hands flat on Arthur’s chest and pushes him away from the warm circle of his arms.

“A lesson then. A King should always be able to command attention” he says, sounding calmer than he feels.

Then he turns away and rest his hands on the ledge of the window, body bent.

Arthur breathes harshly behind him.

It’s entirely possible he’ll just leave.

But then his hands rest, tentatively, on Orm’s hips. He stares more resolutely out at the gardens. They really are beautiful.

Maybe they still will be when Mera is the one deciding what they look like and Orm is gritting his teeth into a smile at his husband’s mistress and her flowers.

Arthur pulls at the fabric along his legs and Orm suppresses the urge to shiver at the water moving directly along his skin and the lack of warmth as Arthur steps away when he’s done and Orm is half-naked.

It’s only for a moment, to undo his own clothes.

Then his hands return, the strange human callouses skating along the softer skin at the small of Orm’s back.

They’ve never done it like this before, without facing each other.

It’s daunting, suddenly, the possibility that he’s miscalculated.

That he won’t be able to take it, in spite of years of practice, when Arthur walks away after using him.

After learning that he can, that he should, that Orm shouldn’t become a weakness.

Arthur’s thumbs move lower, moving his legs apart.

The swipe of his tongue is sudden and surprising, making him jump. He bites his lip and tightens his hold on the ledge.

Arthur will have to try harder.

It’s too obvious a gambit, even if the way Arthur’s lips and teeth move along his slit make him want to weep. But he won’t, not today.

Arthur will have to grasp at him, pull at his hair, strike him, maybe. It’s necessary. He has to learn cruelty, too. They both do.

Orm hopes he’ll break before Arthur has to resort to words. They’d hurt more.

Just the thought makes him a little sick.

But Arthur doesn’t.

He nuzzles at Orm’s thighs, moving his fingers inside him in a way that sends light shooting along Orm’s spine. He’s taken the time to learn his husband’s body, and the proof is in the way the rows of the garden are blurring in his vision.

Orm focuses on his breathing, trying to hold on.

“Ready?” Arthur said somewhere above him and Orm’s fingers twitch with murderous intent.

It wasn't _fair_ , how Arthur kept speaking to him like that, like he was precious, like what he wanted mattered.

Orm didn't want things.

He learned a long time ago that he couldn't. He could plan and strive and organize but he couldn't _want_.

Arthur was the only one that made him doubt it.

Orm didn't make a sound when Arthur sighed and slowly slid in, trying not to hurt him.

He was big, by Atlantean standards, overly thick and blood hot. Not that Orm would really know.

Still, he heard the titters, how it was pornographic, really, Arthur’s permanent bulge, no slit to hide in.

The maids especially liked to speculate about it, how Orm must be the luckiest spouse in all of Atlantis, to have a husband like that.

But there wasn't a single being like Arthur on the whole of the planet, anyway. No reason to try and compare.

Especially when he was rocking so steadily into Orm, making forget there was anyone else in existence.

Arthur kept his pace gentle, hands skimming along Orm’s sides, careful to stoke the most sensitive stretches of his skin.

He’d been wrong before. This was real cruelty. The sensations that would most torment him when they were gone.

“You’re so beautiful” Arthur whispered against his hair, licking at his ear like a lover should.

Something traitorous in Orm’s chest mewled in response even as he tried to crush it.

Arthur held him close, leverage be damned. He kept moving easy, turning Orm’s skin to magma, the pleasure thudding through him like blows.

“You’re so good for me” he whispers at the back of Orm’s neck as he wrenches his face away because he can’t, _can’t_ hear it, it isn't true and he can't believe it.

Arthur’s lips trace his neck, unsteady, giving away just how much he’s enjoying moving inside Orm’s body.

“I lov-” and that’s it, Orm breaks, moving as quickly as a striking snake to stop him, kissing desperately.

Their tongues slide together and Arthur makes a noise that drops like a fall of stones inside of Orm.

The angle is bad but Orm doesn’t move, holding Arthur’s hand still against his chest. He thrusts deeper and harder, losing control completely, while Orm mewls into his mouth to urge him on, happy to come like this, without any help from anything else.

They finish like that, torn from them suddenly as if by an outside force.

Orm comes back to himself hiding his face in Arthur’s neck. It’s embarrassing, it’s weak and he doesn’t want to stop.

Arthur breathes against his skin, pressed so close he can feel the air before the water.

It’s that, the steady pulse of Arthur alive all around him that gets him to move away and try to straighten his clothes.

He bows and waits to be dismissed.

Instead, Arthur goes out the door first with a rueful smile and a “Y’know, I still have no idea what the fuck you were trying to teach me”.

As he goes Orm realizes that, in truth, he doesn’t either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to get in some fic before the movie jossed everything...


	3. Chapter 3

It startled him when he realized.

For the first time in a long time, Arthur felt entirely _happy._

No ifs, ands, buts, meetings with pompous nobility in less time than he could prepare, alien invasions or treasury meltdowns to ruin it.

He was chasing his brother, husband, lover, through rough brackish water with a smile on his face.

It made sense. Lately the only thing close to peace he felt was inside of Orm’s body, his bed.

And now, eyes squinting against the rushing tide, heart pounding with exertion, he could, for once, truly breathe.

This, finally, was where he should be.

When they had started the lessons, everyone had looked for an ulterior motive. It was the Atlantean way.

But at first they hadn’t suspected Orm, they’d suspected the most honorable, ancient and traitorous House of Whatever The Hell for their gift of what Arthur understood was a very beautiful, very expensive, horse.

Not that he knew much about them, on land or water.

Naturally, as Orm was known to be an able horseman, they’d started lessons, which soon turned into brief excursions.

It was only later that it became clear that Orm’s hand had been in it all along, the way Arthur had privately always thought. Vulko had practically thrown a fit.

Arthur had smiled.

He’d named the horse Nerites, and enjoyed Orm’s silent approval. He was learning his way, if only a little.

Mera and the others suspected that Orm was using their rides, alone and far from the rest of the Court, to murder him or something else equally sinister.

The first ones had been easy, sedate, and respectable. _Enough to lull you into a false sense of security_ says the voice that sounds like Orm’s that has taken up residence in his head.

He’d be proud, probably, of how Arthur is starting to think in the ways their position demands.

If that day was today, when Orm had finally spurred them both into a gallop, bearing all his teeth at Arthur as they rode, he thinks he could live with it.

Just the image alone, of Orm openly wild with glee, hair tangled in the rough seas, on a mare he named Nerea just to please Arthur and spite everyone else, would be worth it.

Even if all he got was sore muscles afterward, they always throbbed with something like triumph.

Orm was more patient that he usually was, too, less prone to the irritated sighs he gives when Arthur fumbles the names of their provinces or ministers.

Arthur isn't entirely sure whether it’s because of him or the affection his brother clearly had for the animals.

It reminded him of Alfred, a little bit, what little he’d seen of him and Bruce and his seemingly endless hoard of children. That British stuffiness that led them to be more openly affectionate to dogs and Batmobiles than to their relatives.

Being in the saddle was the closest that Orm ever came to being relaxed.

The tension around his eyes, the one Arthur had missed at first and now found himself obsessed over, would disappear.

Maybe that was what he’d looked like, when he was younger. Probably not though.

 Orm had been born with the world on his shoulders.

Arthur wasn't sure he'd trade his own childhood, lonely and dislocated but loving, always loving, for this.

Orm probably wouldn't take the deal either.

And still they both ended up here, together, matching crowns and all.

Orm had almost been smiling when they set out that morning, tension draining with every league they put between them and their last awful, realpolitik infested luncheon.

He’d been riding beside Arthur, when he’d grinned and bolted, daring him to give chase.

Arthur had, of course.

It was a side of Orm the others didn't see, the carefully concealed desire to knock everything down to its foundations and dance in the wreckage.

He doesn’t think Orm has ever indulged himself, not until Arthur came around. He’s never claimed to be a good influence.

Hell, there’s a part of him that wants to take Orm to the surface and set him loose on a crowd of drunken sailors at some anonymous dockside bar.

He could use a brawl, and Arthur’s sure it would be the sort of show he’d want a front row seat for.

Ahead of him, Orm turns with a shark-like grin, like he’s reading Arthur’s mind, and promptly disappears.

Arthur overshoots and struggles for a moment to turn his horse around. It’s lucky that Nerites is better at being ridden than Arthur is at riding.

Even now, Arthur forgets things about life underwater, stuck in surface mindsets. He doesn’t think of _up_ and _down_ as possible directions as often as he should.

But that’s where Orm has gone, dropping in the crevice between two gnarled rock formations Arthur is sure must have a name. Something overly Atlantean, for the weapon of some general or the gruesome martyr-like death of some priestess of any of their crowded pantheon of gods, big and small. He still couldn't tell them apart.

The light dims when they take the tight turns into the rock walls and Arthur hesitates.

But his horse knows the way, it seems, following the wake their quarry has left. Intentionally, almost certainly.

He’s beginning to think there’s nothing his husband, his little brother, likes more than the thought of Arthur dogging his heels, half a step behind. It might be annoying if he didn’t enjoy it so much himself.

When he finds Orm, tucked in a small clearing of sorts, ringed with tall kelp trees, he’s busy dressing down his mare, tying her carefully.

“Take care of your mount” he snaps without looking at Arthur, the way he always does after their rides.

His motions are stiffer though, as if he’s holding himself tight.

The tiny space is nothing like the palace’s ample and opulent stables, but the process is much the same and Nerites seems glad for the pause.

It’s companionable, the way it always is, even if Orm seems to be doing everything he can to not look at Arthur.

When he finishes he turns to Orm, intently studying the nearest rock wall. Maybe it’s significant, somehow, maybe it's covered in cave paintings that represent the glory and the lineage of their people.

He’s expecting a lecture, when he turns.

What he gets is an armful of Orm, launching himself with his whole weight at Arthur in a way that makes him think it might really be an attempt at murder.

Instead Orm’s tongue is pushing desperately into his mouth like that’s the only way he can breathe, legs wrapping around Arthur’s waist tight enough to bruise.

He can tell, from the frantic clutch of Orm’s fingers that he must be wet already, his slit parted and enticing.

It’s the first time Orm has ever really initiated things between them, the first time he’s been so openly and unabashedly wanton, and the bolt of lust and vindication is so total Arthur’s knees buckle.

They nearly go pin wheeling.

For a moment they kiss like the world is ending around them.

Or maybe just narrowing, turning into nothing but teeth and tongues, the slight difference in the way they taste, the thickness of their saliva, the strangeness of the lack of salt now that they're pressed so tight no water can get in.

Then Arthur manages to grab a handful of Orm’s hair, enough leverage to unlock their lips.

“Please tell me it wasn't the horses that got you this hot” because as old as they are those rumors made their way to him eventually and if he can't occasionally tease his little brother he doesn't see the point of having him.

Orm snarls against his cheek, hot and throbbing, “There’s no one around for _leagues_. No one would hear you scream”.

“I’d bet I can make _you_ scre-” and Orm’s tongue is in his mouth again, his arms locked tight against Arthur’s neck, like a promise and a warning.

It’s up to him to move his hands down along their bodies and open up their clothes.

He’s gotten rather good at it, managing Atlantean garments and their clasps.

Getting Orm naked is an excellent motivator.

Slipping his fingers between Orm’s legs he finds that he was right, he’s split open like a peach, pulse throbbing wetly against Arthur’s fingers. The flesh in there is dark, purple like a bruise, and the image is so intense that Arthur’s hand moves on its own to make him _shake_ , like his lips against Orm’s neck.

His head falls back, happy to let Arthur have free rein of all that flawless skin.

His sweat tastes almost sweet, the texture almost viscous, catching Arthur off guard every time.

He remembers the look of shock on his face when he’d first tasted salt off of Arthur’s skin.

A shiver wracks through him at a twist of Arthur’s thumb, hands spasming against his neck.

“It was _you_ ” he hisses, like an insult, like a secret. And finally, finally, his hand moves down, batting away Arthur’s where he was working himself in time with Orm.

The other stays digging into the back of Arthur’s neck, a sweet sting that going to stay with him for days.

He might keep them short but Atlantean nails are tough enough to be more like claws.

Arthur can’t help the sound in the back of his throat, vulnerable and pleased, as his eyes slit shut with the feeling.

There’s a sharp something in Orm’s breathing when he hears it.

He’s rough when he strokes Arthur, but careful, waiting for his eyes to open again and meet his.

“On your mount, racing the tides” the final _s_ turns into a hitching sigh as Arthur’s fingers twist inside him.

He flicks the head of Arthur’s cock as payback, and they end up biting their lips in perfect synchronicity.

Arthur shifts closer, letting their foreheads fall against each other.

“It’s the most regal you’ve ever looked” Orm confesses, words brushing Arthur’s lips as they breathe the same water, the same air.

There’s no leverage but the one they make, standing dead center in the clearing, shielded from non-existent eyes by the tall seaweed, swaying gently above them.

He feels like they're making their own gravity, pulling each other inside, skin calling to skin where they can reach it, hands deep in each other’s pants.

It’s a high school move, on land anyway, to get each other off using only their hands, not kissing like they’re afraid to get caught.

As if either of them had ever been a normal teenager, on the surface or underwater.

But there they are, awkward and eager, racing to the finish as if they might be torn from each other at any second.

It’s unbecoming for husbands, for kings, but it fits, just another strange beat in their ass backwards courtship and marriage, full of mismatched parts and jagged edges that make something that might even be beautiful, if you take a step back and squint.

Orm finishes first, off hand clenched tightly in the fabric at Arthur’s shoulder, the skin of his neck still pulsing dully from his nails.

He might have even drawn blood.

It’s the way his body wracks with it, mouth falling open in shameless, unselfconscious pleasure, that pushes Arthur over the edge, more than Orm’s loose grip around his cock, the sharp edge of his nails.

The sudden silence is deafening, making it all the more obvious just how loud they’d been.

They’ve scared off all the little fish that must live amongst the seaweed and even the horses are quiet, leaning against each other like their masters.

It’s getting dark, faster than Arthur expected. Or maybe he just wasn't paying attention.

Orm tucks himself under Arthur’s chin, and they hold each other for a long time, as if the world has stopped around them.

If what he feels isn't love, Arthur isn't sure there’s a word for it.

Orm shoves him away eventually of course.

He’s a mess, hair in tangles, clothes awkwardly rucked up from Arthur’s hands and a flush still on his skin. He’s breathtaking.

Nobody else has seen him like this.

No one else ever will, if Arthur has anything to say about it.

Just the thought of the collective stroke the royal court would have at the sight of him fills Arthur with a fierce, teeth bared kind of sort of pride and a bone deep protectiveness.

In all those years he wasted drinking himself into an emotion numbing stupor in thousands of nameless portside bars, he always thought that assholes that claimed _mine_ over their partners were fuckheads that deserved to get their heads caved in.

If it felt anything like this, he owes some apologies.

Probably some hospital bills too, especially now that he has a royal vault to back them up.

Orm would fucking kill him if he tried though.

The thought makes him smile.

Because it turns out that during all that lost time it was this, here, that he was looking for all along.

“Well?” Orm says, and it’s amazing, how quickly he’s put himself back together, pulling until he’s back in the irreproachable shape of Atlantis’ King Consort.

A little sad too, thinking about it. It would have taken years to hone those skills and no end of pressure to do so.

Arthur’s just been staring at him the whole time, instead.

It’s only partly so Orm will sigh, put upon but also secretly pleased, floating back to him to put Arthur back to rights.

Back to the proud King that stole all his control.

“Hey– Arthur whispers, pulling him in by his elbows. Orm just sighs, slightly more annoyed this time– did you bring me to make out point?”

Orm’s forehead crumples, too stubborn to just ask what exactly that means. He’s smart enough to figure it out anyway, and well versed in surface slang by dint of all the time he spends with Arthur, correcting him whenever possible. You call one courtier “dude” and no one lets you forget it.

“No” Orm says finally.

“I’ve never brought anyone here before” he admits, frowning like he never meant to confess.

“Cool” Arthur whispers, understanding what a gift this is, being let into the secret spaces Orm has carved out for himself.

It fills Arthur with so much feeling he finds himself leaning in for a kiss.

Instead, Orm slips away to the horses, but there’s a smile on his lips, small and real.

“So I’m presentable?” Arthur calls, going to Nerites, who nuzzles him happily, ready to go home.

“Never” Orm says, the smile still there.

Arthur laughs.

They mount up silently and swiftly, riding neck and neck the whole long way home to the lights of Atlantis, shining in the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...but since you’re here, I’ve got a few words: [Hey, Brother](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YxIiPLVR6NA); [Coral scents](http://www.alertdiver.com/sweet-smells-coral); [Dynastic incest](https://www.nationalgeographic.com/magazine/2010/09/tut-dna-dobbs/); [Atlan](http://aquaman.wikia.com/wiki/Atlan); [Targaryens](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Targaryen#Customs); [The gardens](https://i1.wp.com/www.brainpickings.org/wp-content/uploads/2013/10/needahousecallmsmouse6.jpg?w=500&ssl=1) ([and their architect](http://designboner.blogspot.com/2009/10/open-book-need-house-call-ms-mouse.html)); [Clownfish](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amphiprioninae#Reproduction); [Aquatic dieties](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greek_sea_gods); [Lemuria and Aurania](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Atlantis_\(DC_Comics\)#Lemuria); [Triton](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Triton_\(mythology\)); [Leto](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leto); [Hydrothermal vents](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hydrothermal_vent); [Lysander](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lysander); [Seahorses](https://io9.gizmodo.com/aquamans-going-to-be-even-more-inspired-by-dcs-comics-t-1826863032); [A(t)tia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Atia_of_the_Julii); [Tula](http://dc.wikia.com/wiki/Tula_\(Prime_Earth\)); [Sea snakes](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sea_snake); [Nerites](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nerites_\(mythology\));[ Nerea](https://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nerea); [British affection](https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0286788/quotes/qt0361233); [Realpolitik](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Realpolitik); [Kelp forests](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kelp_forest); And finally: thanks for making it this far.


End file.
